A Very Chelsie Christmas
by chelsie fan
Summary: A series of one-shots inspired by an alphabetical list of Christmas-related prompts. Some chapters might have S5 spoilers, and I will indicate that in the A/N.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N This is the first in a series of stand-alone ficlets/drabbles/stories/poems(?) that I hope to post throughout the month of December. This collection was inspired by an alphabetical list of Christmas prompts that struck my fancy. I hope they strike yours, too. If you'd like to see the entire list, please check my tumblr page.**

A – Advent

_December, 1920_

With Christmas approaching, the staff began decorating the house. Mrs. Hughes directed and supervised the preparations. Mr. Carson walked about, nodding his approval and occasionally giving instructions. Upstairs, elaborate swags of greenery were draped over the fireplace mantelpieces in the main rooms, about the archways between the rooms, on the railings along the balcony, and around the banisters on the stairs. Wreaths were mounted on doors and above fireplaces. Mistletoe was suspended in doorways. Floral arrangements were displayed on nearly every flat surface. Candles were placed everywhere. Figurines and other trinkets were situated on tables, shelves, and mantelpieces throughout the house. Only the tree was not yet put in place.

Downstairs, the decorations were more modest, but no less festive. There were evergreen boughs in the servants' hall, some very pretty winter flowers in the kitchen, a wreath on the back door, baubles here and there, and a lovely holly-and-ivy centerpiece in the middle of the servants' table. The small tree for the servants would come later.

When everything was complete, Mrs. Hughes praised the staff's efforts. She sent her maids off to perform other duties and turned the footmen and hall boys back over to Mr. Carson's direction. Then she sequestered herself in her sitting room, where she set out a few of her own trinkets, some candles, a vase of flowers, and a few small sprigs of holly and ivy. Satisfied with her efforts, she sat down at her desk to look over some papers. Before long, she heard a clatter and a commotion in the corridor. Leaving her sitting room to investigate, she found Alfred and James hanging mistletoe in the downstairs doorways. Alfred needed no additional height to reach the tops of the doorways, but James was being very noisy with the wooden crate he was using as a step-stool, and apparently, that was what had attracted Mrs. Hughes's attention.

"James … Alfred … Just what do you think you're doing? You know that Mr. Carson will not approve of such nonsense. He doesn't allow mistletoe downstairs. It gives you young ones ideas, he says."

"But, Mrs. Hughes – " began Alfred.

"No 'buts,' Alfred. Take it all down at once," she commanded, interrupting him. "I'll not have Mr. Carson huffing and bellowing when he sees it."

"But, Mrs. Hughes – " tried James with no more success than his counterpart. He was cut off just as summarily.

"I'll have no cheek from the two of you! Now, do as I say, and then go about your business. Quickly, now! If you know what's good for you, you'll not let Mr. Carson catch you out." And she returned to her sitting room, expecting her orders to be obeyed.

Ten minutes later, as she reviewed some kitchen invoices, Mr. Carson knocked on her door and entered.

"Mrs. Hughes, will you kindly explain to me why you object to a little bit of mistletoe? What do you mean by ordering my footmen to remove it from all the doorways?" Mr. Carson demanded with feigned sternness.

"_What?_ Why _I_ object to mistletoe? Are you in earnest? Mr. Carson, during the entire time I've been here, you've _never_ allowed such a thing downstairs!" Mrs. Hughes was at as loss.

"Nevertheless, I've asked the lads to hang some this year. I don't see the danger in a bit of harmless fun."

"_Harmless fun_? Are you _joking_?" cried Mrs. Hughes. "With two lovesick young lads like Alfred and James chasing poor Ivy and Daisy? Not to mention the rest of the lot! Hall boys and housemaids … That's just asking for trouble. You know you'll regret it."

"We shall see. We shall see … Can we agree, at least, to a trial period? Perhaps we can leave it up for today, and see what happens? At the first sign of mischief, I'll have it removed."

Mrs. Hughes could only shake her head in wonder. "Very well, Mr. Carson," she conceded. "But on your own head be it!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I think you might be surprised." And he strode from the room, leaving Mrs. Hughes thoroughly perplexed.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Mr. Carson was correct. Throughout the first day, the downstairs mistletoe caused little enough disruption. Aside from Mr. Bates and Anna stealing a quick kiss underneath the sprig in the servants' hall doorway, the pervasive plant bore no other romantic fruit. Most of the maids were wise enough and cautious enough not to be caught standing in the doorways by randy footmen and hall boys, and the few footmen and hall boys who _did_ catch the maids were wise enough and cautious enough to claim no more than an innocent peck on the cheek.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

That night, as Mrs. Hughes sat at the little table in her sitting room, talking with Mr. Carson and sipping her nightcap, she admitted, "It seems you were right, Mr. Carson. The mistletoe has done no real harm yet."

"Of course not. I don't know what your objection has been all these years," he teased.

"Nor do I, Mr. Carson," she played along. "I suppose I've been wrong the whole while."

"Indeed you have. Let the youngsters have their fun. As a matter of fact … I have a sprig right here," he said, shifting in his chair and pulling a small cutting from his waistcoat pocket. "I thought I might hang it in here for you, if you feel so inclined."

"Really, Mr. Carson," she said dismissively. "I'm far too old for such frivolity."

"Nonsense. Please, Mrs. Hughes. Allow me. I'll put it someplace inconspicuous. It will be our secret," he pleaded.

"Oh, all right," she capitulated, wondering what on earth he could possibly mean by all this.

He stood and made a show of looking about the room, though she suspected he already knew where he wanted to hang it. "Ah," he said, finally bringing his gaze to rest in a spot right above where she was sitting. He stood over her, and using a piece of string he'd brought with him, he affixed the small clipping to the light fixture protruding from the wall above her head.

"There," he declared when he'd arranged it satisfactorily. "No one else will even know it's there." What he said was true. It couldn't really be seen from the doorway, and the only time she ever sat in that chair beneath it was in the evening – with him.

He remained standing there, seemingly waiting for something, and she felt bold enough to ask, somewhat breathlessly, "It seems you've caught me under the mistletoe. Do you intend to claim a kiss?"

"Only if you're agreeable. I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he answered.

"It would be unusual, but not unpleasant, I think," she told him.

Having been granted permission, he bent down, grasped her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it sweetly. Then he smiled down at her, still holding her hand. "I hope you didn't find that too disagreeable, Mrs. Hughes."

"No, Mr. Carson. Not at all." She smiled back up at him.

"Good. I think I'll say good night now. I'll see you in the morning." He released her hand slowly, sliding his fingers softly over hers.

"Good night," replied Mrs. Hughes dreamily, as Mr. Carson gathered the glasses and decanter and took his leave.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

For the next several days, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes did not meet under any mistletoe during the day. It would have been difficult to say whether it was simply coincidence or they were careful to avoid the sprigs that were hung in the common doorways, but the reason was unimportant, because they found themselves under their own, secret mistletoe in the evenings. Every night, after their ritual chat, Mrs. Hughes allowed Mr. Carson to claim his good night kiss, and the kisses followed a gradual, but definite progression.

The second night, he kissed her hand again, but this time, he opened her hand, placed a tender kiss to her palm, and closed her fingers over it, as if giving her something precious to keep. On the third night, he kissed her knuckles, then turned her hand over kissed the place where her palm met her wrist. By the fourth night, he'd grown brave enough to draw her up from her seat and kiss her cheek, far back, near her ear. On subsequent nights, his kisses ventured incrementally closer to her mouth.

They never spoke of these kisses; they simply indulged in them. Even though Mr. Carson had revealed nothing of his intentions in words, his actions spoke volumes. Mrs. Hughes could tell that he was building toward something. She was unsure exactly what that _something_ was, but with the calendar rapidly advancing on Christmas, and his lips gradually advancing on hers, she was certain she would find out before long.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

On Christmas Eve, Mrs. Hughes made it through the day on nervous energy alone. The previous night, Mr. Carson's kiss had fallen so close to her mouth that she could almost taste it. The tension was thrilling, tantalizing, and maddening, all at once. She'd slept only fitfully, her waking thoughts of Mr. Carson's chaste kisses warring with her sleeping dreams of more passionate embraces. Between the family's festivities and the staff's simple but meaningful observances, the day was full of activity. By evening, when the family were all sorted and the staff were finally shooed off to bed, she was exhausted, but also very excited.

It was quite late when Mrs. Hughes finally assumed her usual position, seated beneath the mistletoe in her sitting room, and Mr. Carson assumed his, at the other side of the table. They drank a special bottle of wine that Mr. Carson had been saving for occasion, while they cheerfully recalled the day's events and spoke of the ones to come the next day.

When they could no longer choose to ignore their mutual fatigue, Mr. Carson rose from his chair and said, "I think it's time we should say good night." He pulled Mrs. Hughes gently from her chair to stand before him.

"Yes, I suppose we should," she agreed.

As he held her hands, he leaned into her and lowered his head to hers. She closed her eyes. As his lips neared her cheek, he paused briefly, and she could feel his breath tickling her skin. Her own breath she held, for fear of making unladylike noises if she were to release it. Then, at last, his lips touched her face, coming to rest partially on her cheek but also covering a portion of her mouth, and remaining there for a delightful moment. When he withdrew, she opened her eyes to find him smiling down at her.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes," he said and kissed both her hands before letting go.

"Good night, Mr. Carson," she replied weakly.

Mr. Carson collected their empty glasses and the decanter and turned to leave. Just as he reached her door, the little clock on her shelf chimed midnight. He looked over his shoulder to face her again.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes," he offered as he left.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson," she returned.

Mrs. Hughes began to put her room in order for the night, a whirlwind of thoughts racing through her mind and a flood of emotions welling up in her heart. She very nearly jumped off the ground when she turned from her desk to find that Mr. Carson had reappeared in her room.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," he apologized. "Only, I have something for you. I wanted to give it to you tomorrow – or rather, _later today_, that is – but I find can't wait another moment. And since it _is_ already Christmas now … "

"All right." It was all she could think to say, and her voice would hardly cooperate.

"Will you sit back down with me, please?"

She nodded, and he took her by the hand, led her to her usual seat, and then occupied his own chair, still holding her hand across the table.

"Mrs. Hughes," he began, looking into her eyes very seriously, "before I give you this gift, there's something you should know. You see, all this mistletoe and kissing … The young ones think nothing of it. They see it as a harmless bit of fun and attach no special meaning to it. A young lad will jump at the chance to kiss any pretty girl who comes his way, even if he doesn't know her name; and the girl most likely will welcome his attentions, even if she's just met him. But I have a different view.

"Kisses are not to be offered and accepted so freely. A kiss should be an outward expression of something much deeper. I don't believe a man should kiss a woman unless his intentions toward her are both honorable and serious. I would never dream of kissing a woman unless I intend to devote myself to her fully. But I _do_ dream of kissing _you_, and you should know that my feelings run deep and true, and my intentions are noble.

"I could say, 'I love you,' and it would be true. But 'I love you' hardly begins to describe what I feel for you: my panic when you're late returning from the village or when you're ill; my pain when you're upset or troubled; my joy when I see your smile or hear your laughter; my contentment at just having you near. You see, the word 'love' is inadequate, but I don't know a better one."

The whole time he spoke, Mrs. Hughes dared not move nor breathe nor look away nor even blink. Now, Mr. Carson paused, and she was able to speak, albeit feebly.

"I love you, too, Mr. Carson. Truly, I do. But more than that, I admire you, I respect you, I adore you, and I … desire you. I don't know how to put it into words, either, but you should know that this sentiment which neither of us can describe … I feel it, too – just as keenly."

"I can't tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that."

"Likely, just as happy as it makes me to say it."

"Then allow me to continue. When a man … _loves_ a woman, or regards her as I do you, there is only one proper course of action." He lowered himself on one knee and drew from his waistcoat pocket a simple gold band. "Mrs. Hughes, will you allow me to love you, comfort you, honor you, and cherish you – to spend the rest of my days by your side?"

"Oh, Mr. Carson! Yes!" she cried, sniffling and weeping.

He slipped the ring onto her finger, rose, and drew her up with him. As they stood beaming at each other, he remarked, "Now that we understand each other, I hope my bride-to-be will allow me to give her a proper kiss."

"Your bride-to-be would like that very much," she assured him, laughing joyously.

"Happy Christmas, Elsie," he whispered, as he lowered his lips to hers.

"Happy Christmas, Charles," she murmured, just before their lips met.

And a very happy Christmas it was.

**A/N Originally, I had hoped to post a longer, multi-chapter, modern AU this month, but real life has happened, and now I don't think I'll have the time or mental energy to devote to it. Since a series of one-shots is less daunting, this happened instead. I hope you enjoy. Please leave a review if you can spare the time for a few words. Thank you.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Thanks to all of your who read and reviewed the last chapter, who favorited and followed this story, and who liked and reblogged my post on tumblr. I'm always grateful for your support. Here's the next chapter – a little Christmas baking. Very minor S5 spoiler.**

B – Baking

_December, 1931_

"Do you think that's enough chocolate?" asked Elsie, after Beryl had dumped the broken pieces into the batter.

"Heavens, yes!" Beryl answered. "The chocolate is meant to be an enhancement, not the main ingredient. We want them to be sweet, but not _nauseating_!"

"As you say, Beryl," replied Elsie, duly chastised. "You know best, of course."

"And you'd do well to remember that!" shot back Beryl, cheekily, but with no ill intent.

The two were doing some Christmas baking in the large, well-equipped kitchen at the Mason farm. It had been their tradition for several years – now that they were two, happily married, contentedly retired, independent ladies – to do their Christmas baking together.

The first year, Beryl had not yet married William Mason, Senior, and they had done their baking at the Carsons' cottage; but it had been too much for Charles to endure. The poor man had hovered all day, watching from the parlor while pretending to read his newspaper and listen to the wireless. He'd conceived every possible excuse to go into or through the small kitchen, asking unwelcome questions, giving unsolicited advice, and generally causing unnecessary interference, until finally they'd sent him on a contrived errand into the village. The women, in fact, had had plenty of sugar and flour, but Charles had not needed to know that. He'd dutifully bundled himself up and trudged into the village to acquire their supplies, fearing that if he didn't, he would have fewer sweets to enjoy.

The next year, after Beryl had married and moved to the farm, it had been decided that the Mason kitchen was a far better location for their annual endeavor. Not only was the space better apportioned, better stocked, and better equipped, but Bill, having been married before, was prudent enough to know that it was in his best interest to give the two bakers a wide berth. And every year since then, the week before Christmas, the friends had done their baking together in Beryl's kitchen.

This year, the women were trying a special recipe. The Carsons were expecting a visit the next day from Lady Mary and Master George. Beryl had learned from Daisy (who was now addressed as _Mrs. Mason_, in keeping with the dignity of her position as cook at the Abbey), that these new "Toll House Cookies*" were Master George's favorite. He'd acquired a taste for them while visiting Miss Sybbie and Mr. Branson in Boston and begged Daisy to obtain the recipe and bake some for him. At ten years old, Master George was sweet and sincere, but he also was also well aware of his charm. He knew that if he put forth any reasonable request with a modicum of earnestness, no one would refuse him anything. And so Daisy had written to Ivy, who had then sent her a newspaper clipping with the popular recipe. Daisy had made the cookies for Master George, and he'd declared them "delicious."

Now, Beryl and Elsie were baking a batch so that Elsie could have the lad's favorite on hand when he came to visit the Carsons with his mother. Elsie had become rather partial to the boy; he was growing into a fine young man who reminded everyone of his late father.

"There! That should do it," pronounced Beryl as they mixed in the list bits of chocolate. "Now we'll need to drop little clumps of batter onto the baking tin."

The friends worked together, shaping the rounded little mounds of dough with spoons and their fingers.

"What have you got Charles for Christmas this year?" asked Beryl.

"A new cricket bat," Elsie told her. "He and His Lordship are teaching Master George to play. The lad's a natural, he says. And what have you got for Bill?"

"I've ordered him a new suit from the tailor. He likes to look smart when we visit Daisy at the house."

"That's very thoughtful. I'm sure he'll love it."

Elsie and Beryl continued to chat lightheartedly about this and that while they finished arranging the dough and then while the cookies baked. When the cookies were done and cooled, they each tasted one.

"Hmmm … What do you think, Beryl?" Elsie wanted to know.

"Not bad, for something from America. I can see why the lad likes them. What do _you_ say, Elsie?"

"Well, I'm still partial to shortbread, but these are quite tasty, I must say."

A little while later, Elsie packed up a tin with cookies to take home with her, leaving some for Beryl and Bill. Elsie thanked Beryl and went on her way.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The next afternoon, Lady Mary and Master George sat at the kitchen table in the Carsons' cottage, visiting with their favorite retired couple. Master George had been given a tall glass of milk and a large helping of his favorite cookies. His mother admonished him to slow down and not to try to speak with his mouth full, but Elsie was secretly thrilled to see the boy devour the treats so eagerly. When he'd finished all the cookies that were on his plate, Elsie offered him more, pending Lady Mary's approval. He gave his mother a pleading look, but to no avail.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Carson," said Lady Mary. "He's had quite enough. They're scrumptious, but he'll spoil his dinner. And Mrs. Mason is making his favorite clam chowder tonight." She looked pointedly at her son.

To the young man's credit, though he was obviously disappointed, he answered simply, "Yes, Mama."

"Very well, My Lady," Elsie said politely to the younger woman. Then she turned to Charles and suggested, "Dear, why don't you take Lady Mary in the parlor and show her your new book about Buckingham Palace? Master George and I will be along in a moment. I'd like to ask him all about Miss Sybbie and about what he saw and did in America."

Charles eyed Elsie suspiciously for just an instant before suggesting to his guest, "My Lady, I've a new book about the royal palace. I wonder if you might take a look and tell me if the photographs do it justice. Would you be so kind?"

"Certainly," replied Lady Mary. And with that, she and Charles retired to the parlor, leaving Elsie and Master George in the kitchen with the tin of cookies.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Later, after Lady Mary and Master George had taken their leave, Elsie and Charles went back to the kitchen to finish the clearing and washing up. Charles spotted the open cookie tin on the table.

"Elsie," he began, "I'm quite sure that there were precisely eighteen biscuits in that tin when I left this room with Lady Mary. I see only fourteen now."

"They're _cookies_, Charles, and do you mean to tell me that you _counted_ them?"

"Of course, I did! And do you mean to tell me that _you didn't_? How many years did we spend keeping careful inventories of everything at the house? I _know_ when something disappears. You gave the lad more ... _cookies ..._ after his mother expressly forbade it!" he accused.

"Perhaps _I_ ate them," she rejoined.

Charles took hold of his wife, pulled her to him, and kissed her thoroughly. "You don't taste like chocolate," he observed, still holding her close.

"All right, you win," she conceded. "I let him eat two more."

"Just two? Last I checked, fourteen from eighteen leaves four, my dear."

"Yes, well, the other two are wrapped up in his pocket for after dinner."

"Elsie Carson, the next time you presume to scold me for favoring an 'uppity minx,' I shall remind you how you've spoilt her son!"

Elsie didn't appreciate being teased about her fondness for the boy and sought to silence her husband immediately. She reached behind her, plucked a cookie from the tin, playfully stuffed it into his mouth, and promptly kissed him. With his mouth full of delectable cookie and his arms full of amorous Elsie, Charles was rendered mute: mute, but very, _very_ content.

**A/N Historical/culinary note: "Toll House® Crunch Cookies" were created by Ruth Wakefield at her Toll House Inn in Massachusetts in 1930 when she added broken bits of chocolate to her cookie dough. The recipe became very popular locally and was soon printed in a Boston newspaper. The cookies' fame spread, and she later struck a deal with the Nestlé® company, which began selling pre-chopped bits of chocolate in convenient packages; the company provided her with a lifetime's supply of chocolate, and her recipe was printed on every package of chocolate chips sold.**

**Personal note: chocolate chip cookies are my absolute FAVORITE, and I have the world's best recipe. It's similar to the original Toll House® recipe, but with a few significant differences. Send me a message if you want the recipe, and I'll fix you up with it!**

**Also, please leave a review if you can spare a moment. Thanks!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Thank you once again for all the support so far. Your encouragement really makes this fun for me. I wouldn't enjoy writing this half as much is of weren't for the interaction with you wonderful readers. Please keep letting me know what you think.**

**You'll notice three things:**

**1. I'm a day behind with my letter prompts. I apologize. I hope to catch up.**

**2. I've slightly revised my alphabetical list, so three of my prompts, including C, don't match up with those you might be reading from olehistorian and QuietlyFlailing.**

**3. This chapter isn't a one-shot. It will be continued with tomorrow's D.**

C – Cozy Fire

_Christmas Eve, 1924_

"Have you seen Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked Mr. Molesley when she couldn't find the butler in his pantry or anywhere else.

"Oh, he's just gone into the village. He said he hopes not to be too long, but he needs to fetch something very important," answered the footman.

"Well, it must be very urgent indeed if he's gone out so late on Christmas Eve. And in this weather!" She shook her head and shivered to think of poor Mr. Carson out in the cold.

"He hopes to be back in time for dinner, but if he's delayed, we're to go on and serve dinner without him," elaborated Mr. Molesley.

"That's very strange." Mrs. Hughes's eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. "It's not like Mr. Carson to miss dinner on Christmas Eve. I can't imagine what's so critical ... Oh, very well. Thank you, Mr. Molesley. I won't keep you from your work. Carry on."

But as afternoon turned to evening and darkness fell, the weather worsened, and Mrs. Hughes began to worry. What could Mr. Carson possibly be doing? Everything in the village would be closed by now, and it was pitch dark, freezing cold, and alarmingly late.

Mrs. Hughes tried to distract herself with work, in order to keep her mind from worrying over Mr. Carson, but she was unsuccessful. The wind had picked up, and it had begun to snow heavily. She hoped he'd had the foresight to take an electric torch with him. Even if he had, though, it wouldn't do him much good in the blinding snow. Images of Mr. Carson lying frozen in a ditch, injured and helpless, or lost and alone flashed through her mind. Before long, she'd worked herself into a real state.

When Mr. Barrow rang the dressing gong, she could stand it no longer; she decided to send Mr. Molesley out to look for Mr. Carson. The staff could ill afford to be missing both the butler _and_ a footman at Christmas Eve dinner, with the Dowager and Mrs. Crawley in attendance, but it couldn't be helped. Mr. Carson's safety was more important. Mr. Barrow could make some excuse so as not to alarm the family.

Fortunately, however, and excuse was not necessary. Just as Mrs. Hughes was about to send poor Mr. Molesley out into the storm with an unfortunate hall boy, the back door blew open with a bang, and in stumbled a very distressed Mr. Carson. He pushed the door closed, slumped against it, and dropped his hand torch with a loud, clattering sound.

"Mr. Carson!" cried Mrs. Hughes. "Oh, thank God!"

Such was her relief at seeing him that she rushed to him and almost threw her arms around his neck. She stopped herself just in time and placed her hands instead on his upper arms and shoulders.

"What in Heaven's name ... ? Come inside. I've got a nice fire going in your pantry," she told him. Then she turned to Mr. Molesley. "Mr. Molesley, will you please help me get Mr. Carson to his pantry before he collapses?"

Mr. Molesley obliged and held one of Mr. Carson's arms while Mrs. Hughes held the other. Between the two, they managed to walk the hunched-over, shivering butler down the corridor to his pantry while Mrs. Hughes instructed a hall boy to put away the torch and to clean up the snow that Mr. Carson had tracked in.

Once he was safely in front of the fire, Mrs. Hughes took a good look at him. He was shaking uncontrollably, and his teeth were chattering noisily. His eyebrows and eyelashes were coated with tiny ice crystals. His lips were blue, and his nose and ears were bright red. The rest of his face was frighteningly pale.

"Look at you! You're frozen half to death!" she exclaimed. "Let's get you out of these wet things."

Then turning to Mr. Molesley, she rattled off a list of instructions. "First, ask Mrs. Patmore or Daisy to bring some tea – with a generous helping of brandy. Then, ask Mr. Barrow and Andy to manage the family's dinner. After that, go upstairs and run a warm bath for Mr. Carson. When you've done, come back to help him up the stairs."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes." Mr. Molesley nodded in acknowledgment and hurried off to carry out her orders.

As Mr. Carson stood helpless, Mrs. Hughes started to remove his outer garments, laying them over a nearby chair. He was unable to speak or move, aside from the shivering.

"You poor dear," she said sympathetically. "You frightened the life out of me, you know." Her voice choked around the lump in her throat.

First, she removed his hat and took the liberty of placing her hands over his cheeks and ears. She gasped at how cold he felt. "You're cold as ice!" she remarked.

Mrs. Hughes rubbed his face for a few seconds in a futile attempt to warm it. Then she moved on to his scarf and slipped it from his neck, brushing her fingers across the skin there. At least his neck felt a little warmer than his face and ears. Pulling off his gloves, she noted that his hands were positively frigid. She took them in her own and tried, again unsuccessfully, to generate some warmth. Finally, she unbuttoned his coat and slid it off his shoulders. Running her hands over his upper arms, she determined that his morning coat was wet, too. "And you're soaked through!" she observed.

If she'd stopped for a moment to think about what she was doing, she might have been uncomfortable or embarrassed. She was "undressing" Mr. Carson and touching him intimately, but it never occurred to her _not_ to do it. His outer garments were wet and still had snow clinging to them, in fact, _frozen_ to them in spots. They had to come off, and he couldn't do it himself, so there was nothing for it. Under different circumstances, she might have enjoyed the familiarity, but at that moment, she was just grateful he was alive and safe.

Just then, Mrs. Patmore appeared with the requested tea and a quilt.

"Merciful Heavens! You're a sight!" she proclaimed, taking in Mr. Carson's condition.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," said Mrs. Hughes. She took the tea from the cook and set it on his small table.

"Here. I've brought the quilt from your sitting room." Mrs. Patmore handed the blanket to Mrs. Hughes, who draped it over Mr. Carson's shoulders. "I've got to get back to the kitchen. We're about to serve. Are you sure he'll be all right?"

"I think so, Mrs. Patmore … as soon as we get him warmed up. Thank you. Go on back. You're needed in the kitchen. I'll call you if we need something."

Mr. Carson gave a weak smile and a nod. The cook nodded in response and left the butler in the capable hands of the housekeeper.

Mrs. Hughes picked up the tea cup and turned to Mr. Carson. "Here. Now sit down and drink this." With one hand she held the cup, and with the other, she guided him to a chair near the fire. It was clear that Mr. Carson couldn't hold the cup on his own; his hands were shaking, and he couldn't move his fingers. So she leaned over and held the cup to his lips, and he sipped gingerly. When a few drips dribbled out through his still-chattering teeth and numb lips, she fished around in his breast pocket to find his handkerchief and wiped his chin. Then she moved his wet clothes aside and sat in the chair next to him. She pulled the blanket tighter around him and continued to give him sips of tea until he stopped shaking, his coloring looked more normal, and he was able to croak out a few words.

After a few minutes, Mr. Molesley arrived to announce that dinner was underway and running smoothly and that a hot bath was ready and waiting for Mr. Carson.

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley," said the housekeeper, rising from her chair and helping Mr. Carson to his feet. "Will you please help Mr. Carson upstairs? Once he's settled, you can come back down and help serve the pudding and drinks."

"Certainly, Mrs. Hughes. Come with me, Mr. Carson. We'll get you sorted," Mr. Molesley offered kindly.

"Thank you, but I'm fine," Mr. Carson declared. "I can manage the stairs. I'm grateful for your help, Mr. Molesley, but you should go help with dinner."

"Well, if - if you're sure," stammered Mr. Molseley doubtfully.

"I _am_ sure. I'm much better now," the butler insisted.

"Mr. Carson, I don't think that's a good idea," said Mrs. Hughes.

"I'll be perfectly fine. I'm simply _cold_, not ill or injured."

Mr. Molesley looked back and forth between the two heads of staff, wondering whom to obey.

Finally, Mrs. Hughes shook her head and gave an exasperated sigh. "All right, Mr. Molesley. Go on, then. Help with dinner. Thank you for your assistance." And with that, Mr. Molesley was dismissed.

"Come on, Mr. Carson," said Mrs. Hughes. "You should hurry upstairs before your water turns cold. But when you're done, you should come right back down. It's warmer here than in your room. I'll keep the fire going."

Mr. Carson looked fondly at her as he let the quilt drop to his chair. "Thank you for all your help. You've taken very good care of me."

"Well, I'm just relieved that you're safe. You gave me a fright. What on earth were you doing out in this weather? What could possibly be so important that you risked your life?" she demanded.

"Oh, I hardly think my _life_ was danger!"

"Mr. Carson! Don't make light of it! I was worried sick!" scolded Mrs. Hughes.

"You're right," he conceded. "Perhaps it was unwise. I'm sorry if I upset you. But it was very … _very_ important."

"But _what_? _What_ was so important?"

"It requires some explanation. I promise to tell you all about it when I come back down. Will you wait for me, so we can talk?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course. Get away with you, now. You'd best hurry, or your bath will be as cold as your little excursion."

"I'll see you soon." He smiled and left her to wonder.

_TBC…_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N If you haven't already read the previous installment, you'll want to do that first, because this one picks up where that one left off.**

**Yes, I'm behind on my prompts. I realize now that I probably won't be able to do every single letter, but I'll do as many as I can.**

**Thank you for all the love, both here and on tumblr! If this isn't the most supportive fandom ever, then my name's not chelsie fan!**

D – Dashing

_Christmas Eve, 1924_

Mr. Carson had bathed and was feeling considerably better, but he was still exhausted and not quite warm enough. He stood in his bedroom trying to will himself to dress in his suit to go back downstairs. There was no denying that he really _should_, but after a few minutes, he managed to convince himself that it wasn't strictly _necessary_. It was already rather late. By now, the family would be finished with dinner, and possibly with drinks, too. He wouldn't be serving and wouldn't be seen by the family, and he really didn't feel up to joining the rest of the staff for dinner. He planned to ask Mrs. Patmore for his dinner on a tray to eat in his pantry by the fire, and he hoped Mrs. Hughes might choose to take her meal with him, too. He didn't think she'd mind his wearing more comfortable, warmer attire, so he dressed in his warmest pajamas, dressing gown, thick socks, and slippers.

He took the box from his bureau drawer where he'd put it earlier after undressing. He was pleased that it had remained unscathed despite his harrowing journey from the village. It might easily have been damaged – could have gotten crushed or soiled or soaked – but he managed to keep it safe and dry in the pocket of his trousers. The contents would not have been damaged, but the box and wrapping might have been. Fortunately, it was still in perfect condition to present to Mrs. Hughes. He smiled, slipped it into the pocket of his dressing gown, and headed downstairs.

He stopped by the kitchen first, where Mrs. Patmore and her girls were just cleaning up from the family's dinner and preparing for the servants' meal. Daisy informed him that Mrs. Hughes was waiting for him in his pantry with dinner for them both. Mr. Barrow and the footmen were obviously upstairs serving drinks, but the rest of the staff had begun gathering in the servants' hall for their dinner. As he approached his closed door, he heard soft sounds coming from inside. He opened the door quietly and was met with a sight and a sound that warmed him more than any fire ever could. Mrs. Hughes was carefully, lovingly hanging his overcoat and scarf by the fire to dry while she sang a tune, soft and low. He could just barely make out the words and the melody.

"_Dashing away with a silver tray,_

_Dashing away with a silver tray,_

_Dashing away with a silver tray,_

_He stole my heart away._

_Dashing away with a silver tray,_

_Dashing away with a silver tray,_

_Dashing … _"

There was a momentary pause, and he knew she'd sensed his presence. He felt sorely disappointed when she changed her tune.

"… _through the snow_

_In a one horse open sleigh,_

_O'er the fields – _"

She whirled around, pretending just then to notice him. "Oh, Mr. Carson! You're back! You're looking much better. How do you feel now?"

"Better, thank you. But I will say that I'm still a bit chilled, quite famished, and rather tired," he admitted.

"Well, I think we can remedy your first two difficulties right now, but the third will have to wait until you've been warmed up and properly fed. After you've sat by the fire and eaten your dinner, then you can go straight upstairs and get some rest."

"Yes, well, I hope you don't mind my _very_ informal attire."

"Not at all. I'm glad you're comfortable," she assured him.

She'd placed two chairs facing the fire and had set up their dinner on a small table between the chairs. She motioned for him to take a seat, and once he'd sat, she draped her quilt around him as she'd done before. While Mr. Carson delighted in her devoted attentions, he couldn't help thinking that he'd be much warmer if she'd wrapped her arms around him instead.

She took her seat next to him. As they ate their meal, which included a generous serving of steaming broth, Mrs. Hughes made light conversation and refrained from asking about his earlier activities. He would tell her soon enough, but he wanted first to get through the meal. He also hoped that the rest of the staff would finish their dinner quickly and head off to bed. They would be up a little later than usual on Christmas Eve, but not nearly as late as the next night, when the festivities would last until the wee hours.

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had just finished eating when Mrs. Patmore knocked at the door.

"I'll just take your tray if you've finished," she offered. "Mr. Carson, I'm pleased to see you looking more yourself."

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. It's all thanks to you and Mrs. Hughes. You're both entirely too good to me – much better than I deserve," Mr. Carson told her appreciatively.

The cook dismissed his praise as she collected the tray and its contents. "Oh, go on. I'll just give the young ones a few more minutes, and then I'll send them up," she said, inclining her head in the direction of the servants' hall. "I'll be heading up myself just as soon as I take care of this tray."

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. Dinner was delicious," added Mrs. Hughes.

The three said their good nights, and Mrs. Patmore was true to her word: within ten minutes, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were left entirely alone downstairs.

She went to his desk and poured two glasses of Scotch from the bottle she'd placed there earlier. She gave one to Mr. Carson, sat back down, and they raised their glasses in salute.

"To warmth and safety," offered Mrs. Hughes.

"And the kind ministrations of caring friends," added Mr. Carson. As he raised his glass to his mouth, he entertained the thought that he would prefer the taste of a certain pair of Scottish lips to that of Scottish whiskey. "Thank you for caring for me, Mrs. Hughes. Not just tonight, but always."

"I _do_ care for you, Mr. Carson. Very much. If anything had happened to you tonight … Well, I don't like to think of it. I'm just very grateful that you're home and safe. Will you tell me now what was so important that you trudged all the way to the village and back _in a blizzard_?"

"This," he said, as he set down his glass, pulled the small, wrapped box from his pocket, and presented it to her. "Open it." He was pleased to note that her hands trembled as much as his when she set down her own glass and took the gift from him.

"Mr. Carson … " she whispered breathlessly as she untied the ribbon and pulled the paper off.

"I never imagined doing this in my slippers and pajamas." He smiled at the thought. "In fact, for a long time, I couldn't imagine doing this _at all_. But if your answer is yes, then your seeing me in my nightclothes will become a regular occurrence, I suppose."

She gasped when she opened the box to find a simple, silver band.

"It's nothing fine or expensive," he lamented, "but it was my mother's. I asked Mr. Crenshaw to clean it, buff it, polish it, and re-size it. I also asked him to engrave it. Look inside."

Tears sparkled in her eyes, and her breath hitched as she read the inscription aloud: "_Elspeth Carson_." Her voice was hardly a whisper, yet hearing her speak what would become her new name brought him more joy than he could possibly have imagined.

"I hope I haven't been too presumptuous," he worried.

"Not at all. It does have a lovely ring to it," she responded cleverly.

"I quite agree. For thirty years, this ring belonged to a Mrs. Carson. Since her passing, it has sat in my bureau drawer, waiting to assume its proper place on the finger of another Mrs. Carson. Will you wear it?"

"I think I _must_ marry you – if only to prevent you from foolishly running out into another snowstorm! Yes, of course, I will!"

He stood, placed her quilt on his chair. Holding his hand out for the box, he asked, "May I?"

She also rose, nodded, and gave it to him. He took the ring out, set the box on the table, and slid the ring onto her finger. They stood beaming at each other before coming together for a tender kiss. After a moment, they broke apart, both short of breath.

"Oh, it's perfect!" she declared, admiring the ring on her finger where her hand rested on his chest.

"Since Mr. Crenshaw knows you, he was fairly certain he could reasonably guess your size. I left it with him three days ago. It was ready yesterday, only I hadn't the chance to go and retrieve it until this afternoon. I only just made it in time before he closed up his shop. If necessary, I was prepared to pound on his door until he opened up."

"Oh, you daft man! What were you thinking? Did you honestly think I'd say no if you'd waited two days to ask me? Or if you'd asked me tonight without the ring?"

Mr. Carson now felt comfortable enough to jest lightly. "You've only just said yes, and you're already cross with me?"

"I'd be a lot _more_ cross if we'd recovered this ring from your frozen body lying in the middle of the lane tomorrow morning!"

"But you didn't, and I'm here, safe and warm in your arms," he pointed out.

Mrs. Hughes relented. "You're right. I'll not start things off by rowing over something that never came to pass. I'm too happy to spoil things."

"Are you? I heard you singing, you know."

"Did you, now? Well, I was so relieved that I couldn't help myself. But I want you to promise me: no more '_dashing through the snow_'!"

"But look what's come of it! You've fussed over me, warmed me by the fire, fed me, kissed me, and agreed to marry me. It was absolutely worth every minute of cold I endured!" he teased.

"What would you say if I promised you good food, warm fires, and kisses if you _don't_ go out in the cold?"

"I'd say you have yourself a deal!" As he pulled her to him for another kiss, Mr. Carson found he finally felt warm enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Small portions of this are stolen directly from my **_**Charles Carson's A Christmas Carol**_**. (Is it really "stealing" if you take it from yourself?)**

**Minor warning: a tinge of quasi-angst mixed in with mostly cute fluff. And if that doesn't confuse you, then nothing will!**

**Thank you for reading and for all the encouragement you've been sending my way. Please continue to review here and to reblog on tumblr.**

**I've skipped over E and gone right to F. As I mentioned previously, I won't be able to do every letter. I wanted to post this in time for St. Nicholas's feast day on December 6****th****, but it didn't happen. Here it is, five days late. I give you…**

F – Father Christmas

_December, 1925_

Mr. Branson had come to Mrs. Hughes's sitting room with an unusual request: "I have a favor I'd like to ask of Mr. Carson."

"I don't understand," said the housekeeper. "Why have you come to _me_? Why aren't you speaking to _him_?"

"I'm afraid Mr. Carson doesn't like me much."

Mrs. Hughes sighed sympathetically. "It's not that he dislikes you, Mr. Branson. It's just that ... Well, he was very fond of Lady Sybil. We all were. I daresay he would take exception to _any_ man who tried to take her away from us. It's nothing personal."

"I appreciate your sentiment, Mrs. Hughes. I'll accept that's it's partly true, and we'll leave it at that. I still think my plan has a better chance of success if _you_ ask him."

"Me? Why me?"

"Mrs. Hughes, we all know that Mr. Carson has a certain ... _fondness_ for you. A soft spot, so to speak. I think he'd be receptive to almost anything you'd ask him," tried Mr. Branson.

"Mr. Branson, I ... "

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. But it's true: he's partial to you. Any way, this favor involves you, too, to a lesser extent, and I don't think you'll object. Will you ask him for me? I know he won't refuse you."

And _she_ couldn't refuse the hopeful young man standing in front of her. "All right, Mr. Branson, I'll ask him. But I can't guarantee a favorable response. What exactly is this mysterious request?"

"Well, you see ... "

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"He wants me to do _what_?!" cried Mr. Carson, his voice an octave higher than usual and his eyebrows drawing together and shooting toward the ceiling. "Certainly not! It's simply out of the question!"

"But Mr. Carson, really! It's not all that terrible," reasoned Mrs. Hughes.

"It's beneath my dignity!" he insisted pompously, sticking his chin out and looking down his nose in defiance. "I have my pride, you know."

"Yes. I know," agreed Mrs. Hughes with a knowing smirk. "Come, now, Mr. Carson. It's for the children."

"Absolutely not!"

"Would it change your mind if I told you that Lady Mary supports the idea?"

"It would not," Mr. Carson maintained stubbornly.

"She's making the arrangements and obtaining all the ... _supplies_ we'll need."

"Then she is wasting her time, because I shall not be doing it. The answer is an emphatic 'no,' and that is final!" he declared as he stormed from the room.

To no one's surprise, his icy resolve melted as quickly as a snowflake on a child's tongue.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

On Christmas Eve, the family were gathered in the drawing room. The adults sat chatting with their after-dinner drinks, while Miss Sybbie, Master George, and Miss Marigold played on the floor with some of their toys. At the appointed time, Mr. Barrow announced to the earl and countess, "My Lady, My Lord, there are some visitors here to see you."

"Well, by all means, Barrow, do show them in," instructed Her Ladyship.

"Very well," he acknowledged with a nod. As he opened the door with a flourish, he introduced the guests: "Father Christmas ... and ... _Mother_ Christmas!"

And into the room strode Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, all decked out in the costumes Lady Mary had magically procured for them. Mr. Carson was dressed in a long, flowing, red velvet robe with white fur trim and a hood. In addition, he sported round spectacles, a white wig, and a very unconvincing beard. He carried a large sack over his shoulder, containing the gifts that Lady Mary had chosen and purchased for the children. Mrs. Hughes's outfit featured a green velvet dress with a plush crimson cape. She also wore spectacles and a wig.

The children's eyes grew huge, and all three tots shrieked with excitement upon seeing their visitors. The adults watched and listened intently.

Mr. Carson sat in a chair by the fire, and Mrs. Hughes stood next to him. Miss Marigold toddled up to him first, and he lifted her onto his lap.

"Hello, my girl! Look at you! So pretty in your new dress! Have you been a good girl for your Mama?" he asked. The little girl was too awestruck to respond, so Mr. Carson continued. "Yes, of course. I know you have. I've brought you a gift. How would you like a new doll?" He pulled a doll from his sack and held it out to her. She took it happily and climbed down from his lap to play with it.

Master George decided his turn was next, and Mr. Carson pulled the boy onto his knee. "Well, hello to you, sir! What a fine young lad you are! Big and strong and handsome! Your Mama must be very proud. And you've been very good, too, haven't you?"

"Yes! I'm a good boy," the lad insisted.

"Do you eat your dinner nicely for Nanny, and do you go to sleep when she tells you to?"

"Always!"

"That's very good, my boy!" Mr. Carson praised him.

"Mama says I'm her favorite little man!" said Master George proudly.

"Of course you are! Now, tell me something, young man. Do you like trains?"

"Choo-choo!" yelled the little boy.

"I think we might have just the thing," said Mrs. Hughes. She reached into the sack and withdrew a toy train. She handed it to Mr. Carson, who then turned it over to the eager young lad.

"Happy Christmas, my little fellow," said Mr. Carson, patting him on the head. The boy hopped down and ran over to show his grandfather his new train.

And finally, Miss Sybbie approached and clambered up onto Mr. Carson's lap. She'd patiently waited her turn and was now ready to have her say. By this point, there was enough other activity in the room to distract most of the others present, but Mr. Branson and Lady Mary still took a keen interest in the scene unfolding before them.

"And hello to you, young lady! How are you this evening?" the big, jolly man greeted the little girl.

"Fine, thank you. I'm glad you came," she said.

"Were you afraid I wouldn't?"

"No, I knew you would come. But I'm glad you came _now _– while we're still awake. I wasn't sure you'd let us _see_ you," she explained further.

"Ah, yes, I see. Well, I do sometimes show myself – but only to very special children. And you three are the most special of all."

"You're special, too. My Papa says you're a saint: Saint Nicholas."

"That's right," confirmed Mr. Carson.

"Then you must live in Heaven. Do you know my Mama?"

Mr. Carson grew solemn. "I do."

Miss Sybbie's eyes bulged in wonder. "Tell me about her."

"Well, she was the sweetest soul you would ever want to meet," he recounted fondly. "Everyone loved her, and she made everyone happy – just like you."

"Like me? Did you know her when she was a girl? Did you bring _her_ gifts, too?" Now the young girl was excited.

"Of course: a doll and a tea set and some sweets."

"Is she happy now?"

"She is, my girl," Mr. Carson assured her. "And she's very proud of you. But she does miss you and your father dreadfully."

"Papa misses her, too. And Auntie Mary misses George's papa. Do you know him, too?"

"I do."

"It's not right for papas and mamas to be apart. It makes me sad. But Papa says sometimes sad things happen," she said with a gravity that was heartrending, coming from one so young.

"Yes, my dear, sometimes they do." Mr. Carson's voice nearly broke.

"Families should be together. That's why I'm glad Mother Christmas came with you. I told Papa she would!" She looked up to Mrs. Hughes and brightened considerably.

"And so I have. And here I am," Mrs. Hughes said, stooping to talk to the little girl.

"Do you have children?"

"We have none of our own, dear, but we love _all_ the children as if they _were_ our own, and we watch over them." She risked an affectionate glance at Mr. Carson, and he regarded her tenderly.

"_All_ of the children? That's an important job! You must be very good at it." Miss Sybbie was impressed.

"We do our best," said Mrs. Hughes humbly. "We've had many years of practice. But right now, we have something for you." She bent down and pulled from the sack a neatly folded, child-sized nurse's apron and cap and an arm band with a red cross. "You'll need this to take care of your dolls and animals if they're ill or injured."

Miss Sybbie unfolded the bundle, inspected the items, and admired them. "A nurse's costume? Like Mama's?"

"Yes, dearie. Your Mama helped so many people, and we can tell you've got her kind and caring heart."

"Papa will like it if I grow up to be like Mama."

"You're well on your way, my girl," Mrs. Hughes encouraged her.

"And _we_ must be on _our_ way," said Mr. Carson. "We've a busy night ahead and many more children to visit. And you and your cousins should be off to bed now."

"Thank you for the costume," said Miss Sybbie politely. "When you see my Mama, will you give her something for me?"

"Certainly. What is it?" asked the butler-turned-jolly-saint.

"This." And the small child threw her arms around the neck of the giant man on whom she was perched. Mr. Carson didn't – or perhaps _couldn't_ – say a word. Fortunately, he didn't need to. Miss Sybbie released him and held her arms out to Mrs. Hughes, saying, "Will you give her one, too?"

"Of course," Mrs. Hughes promised as she leaned over to embrace the sweet little creature.

Mr. Carson rose from his chair and gently set Miss Sybbie on the floor with her new costume. Mr. Branson and Lady Mary came over to join the cozy threesome.

"Father Christmas – _Saint Nicholas_," said Mr. Branson. "Thank you for coming. You've no idea how much it means."

"Oh, I think I might," Mr. Carson responded softly.

Mr. Branson offered his hand, and Mr. Carson shook it. Then the young man turned to Mrs. Hughes and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Please give Sybil our love."

"And Matthew," said Lady Mary with wistful but tearless eyes and a quiet but steady voice. "Mother Christmas, I know you don't typically accompany Father Christmas on his journeys, but we're grateful you came tonight. It's done Miss Sybbie good to see you." She reached out and grasped the older woman's hands in appreciation. "Thank you both for visiting us. I'm sure you're very busy, but it meant the world to the children - and to us." She took one of Mr. Carson's hands in her own and squeezed affectionately.

Father and Mother Christmas bade the family good night and made their way downstairs. No one noticed Mother Christmas slip her small hand inside Father Christmas's great paw.


End file.
